Tales of the Forgotten
by Eisheth
Summary: A series of short stories about the more shadowy places and people of Minas Tirith.
1. I

Disclaimer: The world isn't mine, but the OCs are.

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**Tales of the Forgotten**

_I._

They don't remember not being together. Dustanddirt, that's how they've always been, one person separated into two bodies. Some people can't even tell them apart, though they've figured out their differences. Dust has a freckle right on the point of his left elbow, and Dirt's toes are longer. Maybe their noses are different too, but they can't tell without a mirror, too expensive for them.

People say they're seven, maybe eight. They both can remember six summers, but people also say there's always a few summers right when you're a babe you can't remember. Soon they'll be too old to get sympathy from passers-by, but their large eyes and pink mouths still make them seem innocent and childish. Everyday they go out and roam the stone streets, sometimes sitting in corners and begging. But they're not beggars, not really, they're just hungry.

Sometimes, if they pester them hard enough, they'll get scraps from Daeron, one of the richest thieves in Minas Tirith. But most of the time they'll just skulk around houses or the market place and wait for people to drop bits of food. They never get enough, but it's better than starving to death. They vow they won't die until they've seen twenty five summers so they can experience the better things in life. When they tell the other orphan-brats that, they laugh at them.

"You'll get caught by the law first," the brats say, especially the older ones, but they've managed to avoid the law this far and don't think they'll ever get caught. They're optimistic, these two, even though they've never heard the word before.

When the war starts, and the soldiers start marshalling, it's easier to find food. They take it as a blessing, not really understand the war at all. It's beyond them, in land far aware and as long as there aren't any orcs in their hideaways, they don't care. In a few days they've figured out how to sneak into the soldiers' barracks and grab cake-like bread and cheese. Maybe some wine, too, if they're lucky. Usually they aren't, but one day they sneak in and find a whole feast laid out.

They're immersed in the food and don't notice three men coming form the shadows and grabbing them. When they do, they kick and shove with their pointy, skinny elbows.

"Caught you, you little stealers!" one of the men say, and then Dirt digs his fingers into the man's eyes and he is let go with a howl of pain. Dust works on the two others, first bringing his knee into the larger one, and then his elbow into the nose of the smaller one. The smaller one lets him go and Dirt and Dust dart away, but not before they grab some food to take with them.

That night, they huddle together, full. That can hear the sounds of growls and gnashing of teeth in the distance, towards the darker lands and see the red fire of a mountain, but they don't mind it. There world is one of bread and back alley-ways, of dirty finger-nails and sleeping in a stony corner, cold but satisfied.


	2. II

**Tales of the Forgotten**

_II._

The trick with selling is not to push too much. It's the decision to be willing to go lower with the price, but make sure it's never _too_ low. Daeron knows this; he's been in the business too long not to know. But he's got a knack, and smiles such a lovely smile that people know that he _can't_ be swindling them.

All around the back-alleys he's known for just that. With the thieves and the rogues who supply him, he's simply known as The Swindler. Some know his true name, but most don't. He carries a list of people who know him, ready to slit their throats if anyone ever comes looking for him. But after his sales, he always manages to slink back into the shadows again, with no one the wiser for at least a few days.

It's a good life, he supposes. In the early days it was all about the glory. He wanted his name talked of everywhere. From the Great Gate of the city to the Citadel. He was more daring then, selling more to the Gondorian nobles than to the merchants as he does now. Sometimes, after having a few drinks, he will retell the story of how he tried to swindle the Lord Steward's sister for fifty gold coins and how she _almost_ fell for it. But that's all he is now, all talk and no adventures. He's content, not desiring to risk his neck anymore, but sometimes he wishes just for another go of the early days.

These days the city seems off. He's heard rumors, of course, of a suicide mission and how the Lord Steward has gone mad, but he doesn't make much of it. The air may have a metallic sting to it, and the tension may be mounting, but as long as he makes money, he doesn't care. Nor do most people he comes across in his wanderings. Sometimes he'll watch the bands of orphans when he traverses on the first level of the city, who act the same way they've always have. And on the third level, there are still the allures of fancy courtesans who still ply their trade. And when he ventures up to the higher levels to watch the stars at night, the rich are still rich. Situations may change, but people don't.

"Ten silver pieces," he says to a merchant, dangling a handkerchief he's trying to pass off as Elven made. It's bordered with green thread, in a leaf design and a swirling Elvish letter in each corner. He found it discarded, washed it up and studied it for a day to figure out what to sell it as.

"That's ludicrous, it's just a napkin," the merchant says, his beady eyes bulging at the price.

"It is made by the Wood Elves, I heard as a gift to the Sorceress of Lothlorien," he's trying to entice him, having a history for this little piece of cloth all thought up.

"And where in this city did you hear that?"

"Strange things are abroad, my friend, and Minas Tirith is garnering strange visitors,"

"Five silver pieces, if you assure me it's Elven-made,"

"Eight,"

"Seven,"

"'Tis your's, my lord," he bows deeply and hands the handkerchief over to the other man, who gives him seven silver coins. Daeron smiles and pockets the money. He turns and walks into the shadows, leaving the man to find his own way out of the twisting alley-ways.

Business as usual.


	3. III

**Tales of the Forgotten**

_III._

Sometimes, when it's quiet, she can remember her life before the corner. It's swirls of colors now, but occasionally she can conjure up faces and voices, reliving the past. She was so beautiful back then; men said she must have been a Half Elf, for she was as bright as the stars. Now she is lucky if men think her ugly enough to throw her a few coins.

Unlike the other beggars who line the dirty streets, Elwing has known more. It makes ever plead more painful, every, "Please, sir, be kind," a sentence adding to her nightmarish existence. But she must live, although some days she wonders if death would be any worse.

Tonight she can see the stars. Those beautiful stars, the same she was once so elegantly compared with. The Elves, she can remember from her childhood lessons, considered the stars as sacred, created by Elbereth. Men believe the same, although Elwing has turned her back upon Great Ones years ago.

Sleep does not come to her tonight. Upon the corner, her very own street corner she pays one of the gang leaders to live on, the ground is hard and cold, much unlike the feather beds of her youth. Her fall from grace…she truly had been stupid. To trust a soldier's feather tongue, promises of marriage. It was a foolish thing and she has cursed herself for it ever since. She's turned as cold as the stone now, trusting no one save herself. In the beginning, when she was still as beautiful as the stars, men told her they could raise her to greatness. And they were all ignored; Elwing wanted to make something of herself with no one's help, but little good such hopes had done.

Come morning, she will once again crouch and hold a small basket up to pay for her food. She will earn the spits and derisions of ladies that she once was; perhaps see some women she once now. She wonders if she has become a morality tale, a cautionary story to maidens who grow full with child before they are properly married off.

But, most likely, she has been forgotten. Her family is all dead; mother and father, from old age, and her younger brother died in a skirmish near Mordor. She paid for those pieces of information with coins which would go towards food, but after hearing of it, did not see the sense to eat.

Finally, sleep grasps her consciousness. Before she closes her eyes, she casts one more gaze upon the stars, and drifts into a dream of twinkling beauty.


End file.
